


What Once Was

by bookwormfaith



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 22:07:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1833925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookwormfaith/pseuds/bookwormfaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, England dreams of what went before or, A Dream of the World that Was</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Once Was

**Author's Note:**

> I...don’t know, I really don’t. The Hetalia bunny is apparently related to Prussia and likes invading vital regions ambushing my other long-standing fandoms to generate strange crossovers. I blame this one partly on ante_luce and allyoucaneater, who fed the bunny after the Transformers crossover (although I suspect they actually wanted more Transformers/Hetalia), and mostly partly on fegie, who drew Hetalia/LOTR in the first place. I own nothing apart from the idea and promise that I didn’t torment any characters too badly. This draws on my own personal fandom which is firmly convinced that LOTR did actually happen and the records were just lost to time until Tolkien got ahold of them (somehow) and translated them into English. Which translates, in Hetalia-verse, to my brain deciding that of course the countries of Middle Earth had personifications too.

**Title: What Once Was  
** **Author:**  bookworm  
 **Ratings & Warnings:** PG for mentions of war and death  
 **Summary:** Sometimes, England dreams of a world that came before

**_Disclaimer: All characters borrowed without permission and returned unharmed._ **

 

It is 1949 and England is reading to America. America is far too old for this, he knows, but sometimes, when things are bad, the younger nation still comes knocking and wanting comfort. It is only 4 years since the end of the War, and they are all still feeling the effects to one degree or another. So England is not surprised that America still sneaks around when he can spare the time, asking for “just one story”, and has come to expect, and even perhaps to enjoy these times. Sometimes he reads him plays, or bits from novels, or they argue about favourite shows or music. This time, he has something a little different, that he hopes America will enjoy.

The book itself is not yet published, at this stage merely sheafs of papers that one of his Professors had given to him to look at before sending it to the publishers. He had been an infrequent visitor, over the last few years, to the gatherings of the Professor & his like-minded friends, as they argued and debated around both this work, and others, and was touched that the Professor thought it worthwhile to give him first look at the final result. Seeing the other nation’s impatient shifting, he leafs quickly through the pages, electing for now to skip the prologue to start with something that will hopefully hold the impulsive nation’s attention. Clearing his throat, he begins.

“ _Chapter One – A Long Awaited Party...”_

 It is much, much later, when, his voice exhausted, he finally convinces America that he cannot _possibly_ read the whole thing _now_ , and chases him out with promises to read more the next time. Although initially it had been hard to keep America’s attention, the tale had slowly but inexorably dragged them both into its captivating hold, at once both familiar & utterly strange to both their existence, striking strange chords of recognition. And they had made it less than a third of the way through! Looking back, England thought he remembered that an earlier work had been published, one he had dismissed as a simple children’s tale; but now, thinking on the conversations he had been privy to, he wondered...

“It is much too late” he tells himself, the clock in the hall having chimed midnight at least several hours ago.

 _It is much too early_ , England thinks, standing outside ‘The Eagle & Child’ in the pre-dawn light. _Surely_ , he thinks to himself, even as he wonders what on _**earth**_ he was thinking, to ignore the comfort of his warm bed to trek out here; _surely, the Professor will not be here_. The Professor is not, of course, but the publician is kind enough to tell him where the Professor works, and thanking him, England accepts the offer of breakfast before he sets off for the College. Even so, it is still too early for classes to begin when he finally reaches the appropriate classrooms, so he is gratified to see the Professor there already. The Professor greets him with pleased surprise, routine pleasantries moving naturally to inquiring as to how his country is enjoying the manuscript.

“Ah, about that...”

The talk is sadly brief, as the Professor has class to get to, and England knows he really should return home in case he is needed by his Boss. Still, by the time he leaves, England is beginning to develop a headache from the topics they discussed. A _translation_ , the Professor had said, _A history_ , _or perhaps, a mythology_ ; and showed him the original, a fragile looking red book, painstakingly preserved. _Given to me by a friend_ , although who and where exactly he had obtained it the Professor refused to divulge. Although if England wished to regard it merely as good fiction, he had added, that was fine too. He had promised to see it out in print, after all, which he is glad to do, and what the world makes of it afterwards is their business, not his.

_Sometimes, in his very earliest memories, England dreams of the faerie courts, and the lonely outsider on the edges – tattered but somehow still more noble and real-seeming that the ethereal fay. Sometimes, he recalls dark grey eyes which hold the light of the stars, a scarred hand, and a beautiful voice which sings him stories to break your heart._

“...I need a drink.”

Shaking his head to clear it, England moves to go home, stopping only briefly on the way to pick up a copy of the Professor’s earlier book. It is, he notes with pleasure, much shorter. Today America does not come by, so England has the luxury to read the book through at his leisure in between appointments. This one, he recognises, is meant for children, but despite its simplicity, he finds himself drawn easily into the story, finding links here to the thicker manuscript that make both stories richer. That night, he falls asleep to visions of dwarves, gold rings, dragons and a small, cheerful and peaceful people with surprising courage.

_England is dreaming, and knows that he is, but he has never felt more awake._

He stands in a great hall, lit by deep windows in the aisles on either side. Pillars of black marble progress down the hall, and if he looks up the roof gleams of gold, inset with flowing multicoloured traceries. In between the pillars stand a silent company of figures that England knows instinctively are of long dead kings, solemn & grave. At the far end upon a dais of many steps there stands a throne under a representation of a crowned helm wrought in marble, and set into the wall behind it is the image of a tree in flower, gleaming with precious stones. Two figures – a man and a woman, stand at the foot of the dais, and he is drawn towards them.

The woman is tall, dark haired & grey eyed. She is almost forbiddingly stern, dressed all in white as she watches the man opposite her pace. Looking at her, something in England stirs with what might almost be recognition.

“Peace!” She tells her companion, “They will come, wether you wear a hole in the floor or no!”

Pausing only briefly, the man flashes a smile at her, turning a face that might be called hard to one of surprising gentleness. “Even so Lady, you must forgive my impatience, as this is a meeting I have long desired.” Like her, he too, is tall & dark-haired. Unlike her, England can see the lines of hardship on his face, and sorrow, privitation & pain have left their marks for those with eyes to see. Despite this, he is richly dressed, and carries himself with a calm authority England has not seen since the days of Arthur Pendragon.

“More so than your meeting with me?”  she asks him, a smile lighting her eyes.

“Ah, that is an unfair question!” He laughs at her in return. “I have met you before, after all, the first time I was here. And to achieve this meeting required me to win you for my own.”

“So I am only a prize then” she adopts a mock insulted tone, “A way to win your heart’s desire?”

Bowing to her he concedes defeat “A prize, maybe, but one that I sought for full willing, and have every intention of doing well by.” He looks at her with fierce pride shining in his eyes. “The night is over, you are reunited with your brother, and in so doing, I have fulfilled the conditions set before me. A new day is beginning.”

“Even so.” She agrees. “A king sits on the throne of Gondor again, and the two kingdoms are rejoined as one.”

Beside them, unnoticed, England starts, a jolt of recognition passing through him. _He knows that name, he has heard it only recently has he not?_

“Do you regret it?” He asks her “My position here? For generations now, it has been the Stewards who led you and your people.”

“I do not.” She shakes her head. “They led me well – some, maybe, better than others; but neither I, nor Faramir, begrudge you the throne. I told you when first we met, when you were still young, little more than a nameless captain seeking fortune, that you were welcome to the throne, if you could win me. Remember? I am the people, and the people are me. They have chosen you, the heir of the kings, and I will not, nay, I _cannot_ gainsay them.”

England staggers back a little, stunned, as the pieces fall into place. _But this can’t be!_ He thinks wildly. _It’s a story, that’s all, just a story!_

“My brother always told me that you were meant for great things.” She tells him wistfully. “Broken and scattered, your people held together almost entirely by the Chieftain’s will, succoured by the kindness of Elrond, generation after generation. But you, he always felt, you were special. And see, his faith is not misplaced, and we will stand together again, as it was in our beginning.”

At that moment a man comes hurrying into the hall, stopping to bow before them. “My lord king, they are here!”

“Ah, at last!” so saying the King offers his hand to his country, both of them hurrying after the messenger, leaving England alone in the room.

Still reeling with the realisation that he had been standing next to the _Kingdom of Gondor_ , which _couldn’t possibly happen_ since it was _just a story_ , England hurries to the nearest window, drawn by the clear sound of trumpets. Looking out towards the North he watches the procession as it comes up to the gates. The first two riders are as alike as to be indistinguishable, dark haired twins with stars on their brows, bearing a silver banner. Behind them come a great procession of Fair Folk, and disbelievingly England identifies the one who must be the golden-haired Glorfindel, whose horse carried the Ring Bearer to safety, among the forefront of that number. Following them on white horses ride the Lady Galadriel and the Lord of Lothlorien, Celeborn, gold and silver side by side, leading a number of their own people. A little behind & to the side, he sees the tall lady he now identifies as Gondor run to greet a travel-stained man, who must surely be her brother, the kingdom of Arnor. And at last, comes Elrond Halfelven, with a sceptre in his hands, and even from this distance England catches his breath at the sight of the one beside him – Arwen Undomiel, the Evenstar of her people. Numbly, in some small part of his mind, England decides that the Professor had not done justice to her beauty, even as his eye is drawn to the group waiting for them at the gates – the King, and...

“The Fellowship of the Ring...” he whispers, acknowledging at last what he knew before, that somehow, he is in the Professor’s story.

“Yes, it was a truly wonderful day.”

The unexpected voice whips him around, hand reaching instinctively for a weapon that is not there, only to stop and stare at what he sees. The figure is small, perhaps the size of an older child, not quite reaching to England’s waist. The eyes that twinkle merrily at England however, give lie to that - for all their joy, there is the wisdom of age & hard-fought battles there as well. But perhaps most telling of all, and what England’s eyes are automatically drawn to, are the feet, which though bare, are covered in thick curly hair.

“You! You’re...a _hobbit_...but that’s!”

Stunned, England could only point and stare. “And you can see me!”

The hobbit, because that was indeed who he was talking to, only laughed gaily, moving to stand beside him at the window. “Yes, I am, and yes, I can. This is a dream, after all, why are you surprised?”

“Then...I _am_ dreaming you, this isn’t real?”

“Yes, and no. Eru and the Valar work in mysterious ways, as they say.” England was favoured with a rueful smile. “I am as real as you, or perhaps, I _was_ , is the better description. My name in life was Maura Labingi, although the Professor has chosen to translate my name as Frodo Baggins, which is, perhaps, easier for you to remember. And I know who you are as well, the United Kingdom of Britain and North Ireland.”

“I...you...!!” England sputtered a few times then fell silent, unable to comprehend what was going on.

A hand reaches out to pat his, comfortingly. “It can be confusing. If it is easier, you can think of it merely, as your own poet has said, as simply a dream. I only wanted to share our story, after all. So much time has passed, and so many things forgotten.” Frodo added sadly. “I wanted to ensure that at the very least, our sacrifices were remembered.” A sudden quick smile, and England is struck by how, with the window’s light behind him, Frodo seems almost to _shine_ ( _like a glass filled with a clear light_ , wasn’t that how he’d been described?). “And, more importantly, _they_ wanted to meet you.”

Following Frodo’s gesture, England turns, and sees the tall lady from earlier, accompanied this time by a man who looks so alike to her that he guesses him to be the brother she spoke of earlier.

“On behalf of my brother and I, be well met, Cousin.” Gondor tells him with a curtsy, as Arnor bows. “We have long wondered who would replace us in later years.”

“I...cousin?” England bows awkwardly back. “It is...an honour to meet you both.”

“’Cousin’ seems close enough” Arnor shrugs cheerfully as he moves to grab England’s arm in a warrior’s greeting. “There is a whole Age of the World between you and us, any definitive relation is going to be impossible to define. I am the North Kingdom, Arnor, and my sister here, as you have doubtless discovered, is the South Kingdom, Gondor.”

“Ah...I suppose that is true.” It has been a long time since Camelot, but the warrior’s handclasp comes surprisingly easily to England, and despite himself, he starts to relax, deciding not to question the unreality of the situation. “Then...you really existed? What did you mean, an ‘Age of the World’?”

“Oh we were, in our time, as real as you.” Gondor assures him with a smile, beckoning him over to a table & chairs set in a nearby alcove. “But as you know, all kingdoms fall, in time.”

“We had many long happy years under the heirs of Elessar.” Arnor agrees, pulling out a chair for his sister before choosing one of his own. “But eventually, even their star faded, and my sister and I were separated again. I faded first – the wild lands of the north were too large for the last gasps of a dying dynasty to hold, and although Gondor held out a little longer, she had already started to fade herself.”

Accepting the offer of wine (and it is, he notes, _very_ good wine), England settles into the chair and decides to indulge his curiosity. He has had much less congenial tablemates in the past, after all. Frodo, he notes absently, is gone. “Then what happened to erase the both of you so thoroughly? There is nothing in the history books, no records of your existence in any of the legends of my time, nothing that any archaeologist has recovered.”

“The Ice” Gondor almost whispers, visage drawn suddenly tight with remembered pain.

Putting a comforting hand on her arm Arnor takes up the tale, face grim, looking very much like how England images the Hobbits must have seen Aragorn when they met him for the first time as Strider. “In the Professor’s story, you are reading about the Dark Lord, Sauron, correct? Without spoiling things too badly for you, he does, indeed, lose. However even as Sauron himself was merely a lieutenant to a darker power, so he too, left another behind. Helcaran, King of the Ice.” Stern grey eyes look up to catch England’s own, cold with remembered pain. “Your people talk about an Ice Age. That same Ice claimed much of what once was, and only the intervention of the Valar allowed even this much of us to be preserved. My sister and I, we are but echoes, now. Mere ghosts.”

“We did not go easily” Gondor murmurs. “But by that time, the might and nobility of the Kings had faded. Aye, we were little better than those surrounding us. But still, we were proud, and we fought for as long as we could. But the creeping cold stole everything. Our summers grew shorter, our winters longer. The crops would not grow, and the people starved as even the wild animals died out. Eventually, it was too much.”

“The people fled” Arnor says, softly. “Took what they could from the remains of my sister’s city and abandoned it. Over the long years...I guess they simply forgot. Too busy trying to survive.”

“I...we don’t know how long the Ice lasted. Then Sûza came, although you would know him better as The Shire. He was the only one of us to survive, if you could call it surviving.” Gondor says. “He was...so diminished. With the intervention of the Valar, the whole face of the Earth was changed, the melted ice flooded everything, nothing remained of what we were. But somehow, Sûza survived. And somehow, he woke us. As memories, only, but thanks to him and the Professor, at least we are...awake, again. And not just my brother and I, but also my beloved Rohan, the elven kingdoms – Imladris, Lothlorien, Eryn Galen & Mithlond, and many of our compatriots, even far-away Harad. All because of a man who believed.”

“That’s what we meant, ‘An Age of the World’ – a whole different time. Nothing now is like we remember. The nations we once loved, traded with, fought against, where are they now? Nothing remains of any of us but these faint echoes.” Arnor gestures self-deprecatingly at himself. “And so we wanted to see what this new world was like. Wanted to meet those who had succeeded us.” England is flashed a smile. “You are one of the closest, to us, geographically speaking, as far as we can tell. Further, you are reading the Professor’s translations, and you still believe in Magic.” Now the North Kingdom leans forwards eagerly. “So, United Kingdom, will you, of your kindness, tell us of this strange new world?”

In the back of his mind England wonders how exactly the peaceful Shire of the Hobbits survived when the great kingdoms fell, and makes a note that he needs to speak to the Professor about this. Aloud however, he only agrees, “But I want to know more about both of you, and your world, as well.”

“A fair trade” Gondor agrees, with a brilliant smile. “And next time, perhaps some of the others will be awake enough to join us. But we are taking you from your sleep, and the morning is here. We shall see you again, perchance soon.”

England opens his mouth to protest, but already the morning light is blinding him, and when he lifts his hands from his eyes he is back in his own bed, the Professor’s manuscript on his bedside table. Looking at the pages he finds that he cannot wait to finish the story, America’s absence be damned. If France does not keep him long today, perhaps he will even manage a visit to the Professor. As he leaves the house to begin his day, he realises that he looks forwards to the next time he dreams.

~End~

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes (i.e. My Tolkien geek-ness, let me show you it):
> 
> 1\. Although Tolkien started writing “The Lord of the Rings” in 1937, it was not actually completed until 1949, and a large part was written for his son during the second World War, which ended, of course, on September 2,1945. Tolkien actually had more-or-less completed the manuscript by 1947 where he showed the first draft to his editors, but final edits took another 2 years. It did not get published until 1955.  
> 2\. “The Professor” is rather obviously, JRR Tolkien himself, and his “like-minded friends” are the Inklings, an informal literary discussion group associated with the Oxford University that met between the early 1930s & late 1949. Apart from Tolkien, members included CS Lewis, Owen Barfield, Charles Williams, Roger Lancelyn Green, Adam Fox, Hugo Dyson, RA Havard, JAW Bennet, David Cecil & Nevill Coghill among others. Their main purpose was reading & discussion of the member’s unfinished works, primarily fantasy.  
> 3\. The “Eagle and Child” was the pub in which the Inklings used to meet, known by its regulars as the “The Bird and Baby” (which the MMORPG “Lord of the Rings Online” references as an inn in Michael Delving) or simply “The Bird”, although later they started meeting at “The Lamb and Flag” across the street, and did use other locations at various times.  
> 4\. The College mentioned here is Merton College in Oxford, where Tolkien worked as the Professor of English Language & Literature from 1945 until his retirement in 1959.  
> 5\. The “red book” is, of course, the “Red Book of Westmarch”, supposedly the diaries of Bilbo’s journey, later amended & added to by both Frodo & Samwise, and from which Tolkien claims to have translated the story. As per Tolkien’s own established history, the “red book” that England is shown is not the original, but one of the copies, perhaps even the one that Tolkien notes was called the “Thain’s Book”, which was stored in the library of Minas Tirith  
> 6\. Most of the descriptions are taken almost verbatim from the equivalent parts of the novels themselves, including a later description of Frodo.  
>  “Maura Labingi” is, as detailed in “Peoples of Middle Earth”, what Frodo’s name would be in Westron, the “Common Speech” of Middle Earth, had Tolkien not “translated” it to something more modern.  
> 7\. The poet, is, of course, Shakespeare, and Frodo is stealing lines from “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”  
> 8\. Helacaran, the Ice King, is borrowed with permission from “All the Tides of the World” by Fiondil, but I believe the Ice Age is a...fairly logical explanation of why no trace of Middle Earth exists. Well, for various definitions of logic.  
> 9\. “Sûza”, as detailed in the appendices of Lord of the Rings, is the Westron name for The Shire.
> 
>  
> 
> NNNNNRGH. My brain hates me. OK. So LOTR Hetaliastyle goes like this:
> 
>  
> 
> Numenor - dead. He was a bit of a pirate in his last days
> 
> Gondor - dark haired version of Galadriel. always dressed in white. Twin to Arnor.
> 
> Arnor - think Strider, all ranger-type, scruffy & dangerous. Twin to Gondor, who spends a lot of time grumbling about "why can't he clean up his act". Which gets a lot of "well I'm trying to survive here" in return
> 
> Rohan - looks like Eomer. Gondor alternatively ignores him or argues with him. Mainly because she likes him. A lot. But considers herself "above" such things. He on the other hand, likes her but just doesn't get what he thinks of her as being "girly"
> 
> Harad - is actually a girl under all those wraps. Dark haired, dark eyed, and vicious
> 
> Khand – Harad’s older brother.
> 
> Suza/Shire - think Sam. Calm, solid & dependable. Likes a good drink, or better, a good meal AND a good drink. A nice bit of pipeweed isn’t unwelcome either.
> 
> Imladris - probably a Silvan version of Elrond
> 
> Lothlorien - Silver haired sindar
> 
> Eryn Lasgalen – Brown haired silvan
> 
> Mithlond – Silver haired teleri...actually I think in my brain it IS actually Cirdan *bangs head on table*


End file.
